Let's Begin Feeding the Sickness
by Vita Fidens
Summary: Dean Ambrose really hates the new GM of Raw, Elizabeth Moore, and the feeling is more than mutual. After months of being terrorized by Heyman, Punk, Lesnar, and the Shield, a match is made with stipulations that will alter one of their lives forever. Rated T: Language
1. Chapter 1

"I have had _enough_," I growled into the microphone clenched in my hand. "Survivor Series – Team Heyman versus Team Moore. Your five boys face five of my choosing. When my team wins, this feeble attempt at a hostile takeover is _over_."

I stared at the ring as the six men huddled and conversed. The six men who had made my life a misery of late – the mastermind, Paul Heyman; my WWE champion, CM Punk; the monster, Brock Lesnar; the three domestic terrorists known as The Shield. I shot an especially dirty look to Dean Ambrose, the messy-haired blond who had the gall to smile back at me blandly.

The brainstorming huddle finally broke up. "All right, Madame GM," Heyman said in his nasal voice, a sinister smile on his face. "You have a match. When Team Heyman wins, you will resign your post as GM and name me as your successor."

"Fine," I snapped. "But when you lose –"

"I'm not finished with the conditions upon which we will accept the match," Heyman interrupted. I raised an eyebrow for him to continue. "If we win, you will also spend the next month with our own Mr. Dean Ambrose. You will live with him. You will dine with him. You will travel with him. Your every moment – awake and asleep – will be spent by his side."

I felt the blood flee from my face. Punk laughed gleefully, while Ambrose just grinned my way. My heart began bounding in my chest. These were incredibly high stakes; stakes I truthfully wasn't willing to accept. But if I backed down now, things would only get worse.

"All right, Heyman," I replied after a few moments, disgusted. "Here are my terms: Team Moore wins, your group is disbanded and disbursed. They will have no contact with one another. And you, Mr. Heyman…you will be fired." I noticed that I was trembling with a mixture of fear and anger. "You will never again work for the WWE in any capacity. You will not have any contact with anybody in my locker room. You will no longer even watch WWE programming as a casual observer. Have I made myself abundantly clear?"

"Yes ma'am, you certainly have."

"Contract signing in two weeks," I said briskly. "Good luck, boys. You're going to need it." I turned to walk backstage and was stopped cold.

"I'll see you soon, Lizzy," Ambrose's voice rang through my ears. I glanced up at the Tron to see him staring after me, a sneer on his face. "I'll see every last broken, bloody bit of you, real soon."

I hesitated a moment longer, watching his expression with very real fear coursing through my veins, before I quickly made my way to the back.


	2. Chapter 2

I rested my weary head against my hands, leaning on the desk in my hotel room.

It had been only six months since I had taken control of WWE Monday Night Raw as their GM. Six months which, in my eyes, had been a great success. Viewership was up. My favorite online critic seemed to enjoy everything I was doing (yes, I still read his column. He makes me laugh and occasionally gives me some great ideas. So sue me.). I had made some spectacular matches and the WWE Universe seemed to be buzzing again.

All because I had one day approached Stephanie McMahon herself with a single idea. I don't know where I got the balls, honestly. I'd been working in the accounting department, watching with frustration as pay-per-view buy rates went down and my beloved show's ratings began to tank. As a life-long wrestling fan, I simply couldn't let that happen.

For whatever reason, Ms. McMahon had liked my idea. Soon she began to swing by my desk and ask for more input. I was promoted. The show began to improve. Finally, she had placed me into a meeting with her father, _the_ Vince McMahon.

He had offered me the chance of a lifetime – be backstage, behind the scenes, and run the show for one night.

I swallowed my anxiety and did it. And I did a damn good job.

The following week, they threw me onto the television screens of the WWE Universe. I stuttered and stammered my way through that week. And the next. And the one after that.

I became more comfortable in my role. The ratings were skyrocketing. I made smart decisions…most of the time.

I did not count the debacle of earlier this evening among those decisions.

It could all be taken away from me now, based on this one stupid match. More than that, there was a very real threat that I could be thrown into the lion's den that was Dean Ambrose.

When I had taken over, Heyman had gotten his panties in a twist. First he had been passed over for Vickie Guerrero, which had been undesirable but tolerable – she had, after all, experience in being a GM. But to be passed over for this blonde 'bimbo' from Corporate with no GM experience…well, that was intolerable, he said. And he and his crew would do everything they possibly could to undermine me and my authority.

The random attacks stepped up. My show was absolute, unbridled chaos.

I tried to do things the right way. I had meetings with Heyman individually and as part of the group. I asked what it was he wanted to convince him to stop holding my show hostage.

His answer was always the same. He wanted my job.

In our final meeting, I'd reached my boiling point.

I stood up, and pointed to the door. "Get the fuck out." He sat looking at me, incredulous. "I'm serious. Get the fuck out of my office. All of you," I added, gesturing to the group. "If you're not going to attempt to negotiate, I'm just going to have to settle this your way."

They filed out. The last one to leave was Ambrose, who just smiled at me unsettlingly.

Starting that night, I found a group of men who wanted a bit more exposure. Every time The Shield, Punk, or Lesnar tried to intervene – my guys showed up.

They knew that they were never to say they were connected to me. That was the one condition I gave them.

There was a lot of carnage. We'd put a few of their guys out. They'd put a few of ours out. The worst was when Ambrose had his arm broken by Drew McIntyre. He blamed me, and made it well known that he was out for my blood now. He became ruthless, essentially torturing my guys to try to make them give me up as the ringleader. They all held, to their credit.

Finally, after two months of this, I'd had enough – and I think Heyman did as well.

He called me out to the Board of Directors for hiring 'thugs' to stymie his efforts. I publicly denounced knowledge of the group, stating that it must be more people than simply me who were tired of his group trying to hold my program hostage.

All that led us to tonight. Hopefully things would be resolved by the end of the month. One way or the other – Heyman's group would be no more, or…I would be no more.


	3. Chapter 3

I was working on putting together the best possible group to face Heyman's for Survivor Series. A few of the choices were obvious – I needed monsters like Kane and Cena to try and neutralize Reigns and Lesnar, the big guys. I also wanted Daniel Bryan in there – he was small, but he was scrappy. He'd be a good match for either Rollins or Ambrose.

That left me with two vacancies. Normally, I would have chosen Sheamus – he was a hell of a fighter, and a decently big guy – but Ambrose had put him out two weeks ago for stepping in between the two of us backstage. Ambrose had me cornered, his hand around my throat. I still thanked God that the Irishman had been there.

I shook my head, trying to shake away the memory of the aftermath of their brawl. In spite of my best efforts, an image rushed to my mind of Sheamus's face, a mask of blood after Ambrose had gotten through with him. Deep gashes and bruises everywhere. A stretcher loaded into an ambulance. And Ambrose, bloody and bruised himself, smiling all the while.

I shuddered at the memory. The smile was probably the worst part of it. Ambrose was truly disturbed; a man who simply lived for pain. I'd never before encountered someone so blatantly, unapologetically insane.

This made defeating him and his team all the more important to me. I reluctantly returned to contemplating my team appointment issues.

I could pull Orton, but he was a wild card – I never knew if he was on my side or someone else's. Truthfully, he was probably on his own side. More than likely, I could bring him in if I made it worth his while.

That left me with one.

The idea came to me immediately, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Del Rio would be rounding out Team Moore.

I had my dream team. Now I just needed to get them all to agree to it.

Sighing, I grabbed my phone and started making calls.

I was able to sign on four of my team with no problem. The fifth, Randy Orton, required some persuasion in the form of a contract for a shot at the WWE Title, which I gave willingly and happily. I had expected him to ask for something more, and was subsequently pleasantly surprised when that was all he really wanted.

And now, all I had to do was wait to announce the team and get the contract signed. The rest would be out of my hands.


	4. Chapter 4

I was reading over Orton's contract for his title shot in my office, attempting to ignore Dean Ambrose pacing outside of my door.

All he was really doing was glaring in at me as he walked past over and over, and there were enough people around that I wasn't terribly worried. I refused to shut the door, knowing that he would realize he was bothering me and do something worse than pacing to get my attention.

I hated the legalese of these contracts. I wished they would just spell things out in plain English. I knew that the Legal Department had made sure everything was in order, but I always tried to read them over before I signed them.

I set the paper down on my desk and rested my chin on my hands, hoping a change in seating position might make me suddenly earn a law degree and an uncanny knack for understanding the language. It didn't help.

I felt something hit the side of my head, and I pulled a piece of paper out of my hair. I looked outside my door to see Ambrose standing there, making absolutely no attempt to hide the fact that he was ripping up one of the scheduling sheets and throwing it at me.

I stood up, walked to the door, gave him the finger, and then slammed it shut. Forget having him get to me; I needed this stupid contract read and signed.

After another five minutes, I'd grasped it enough to feel comfortable with the notion that I wasn't signing my life away and threw my signature on it. I then turned towards my other stack of paperwork – time off requests, ratings reports, all manner of fun things that people felt I needed copies of.

I started to smell cigarette smoke. More curious than anything, I opened the door and poked my head out. Ambrose was standing next to my door, cigarette in-hand, blowing smoke in through the cracks between my door and the jamb. Even as I stood there, he blew some smoke into my face.

"What?" I asked, waving my hand to dissipate the cloud around me. "What do you want?"

"Can't a man take a smoke break?" He asked, puffing again.

"Not in here. Non-smoking building. Take it outside."

Looking non-plussed, he dropped the cigarette on the concrete floor and stamped it out with his boot. Then, staring up at me, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall again, exhaling a cloud of smoke up towards the ceiling.

I waited a few minutes to see if he would say anything. He just stared at me.

"Ok then," I finally said, shrugging and going to walk back into my office.

He reached out and grabbed my arm tightly. I wanted to wince, but did my very best to simply look annoyed.

"I gave you plenty of opportunity to say something. So either spit it out or get the hell out of my way," I snapped, glaring at him.

He grinned at me. "You're very pretty when you're angry, Lizzy." He slowly let go of my arm and walked away, standing on the opposite side of the room again.

I went back into my office, terribly aware for the rest of the afternoon that he was staring in through the doorway watching me.

I did my best to continue ignoring him and make it a very boring production. I played on the internet. I read reports. I made a grocery list. I reviewed the matches for the night, assigning refs and trying to figure out time slots, hoping that it wouldn't all be blown to hell by Heyman's group.

When I glanced out the door at five o'clock, Dean was still there. He raised a hand and waved at me, smiling. I rolled my eyes and turned back to my desk for a few minutes before getting up and going to grab a cup of coffee.

Dean followed me at a distance, not saying anything. I chatted with a few of the guys, making the rounds and being sociable. Then I went back to my office. Dean returned to his post outside my door.

"Shouldn't you be getting ready?" I called, jotting down a few more quick notes on my copy of the schedule.

"This is just what I should be doing," he replied, stepping closer.

"Watching me fill out paperwork? That's your idea of a good time? Might I suggest that you get a hobby?"

"My idea of a good time is watching you squirm. It's starting to bother you, me being here. You're not sure what I'm going to do."

I glanced up and he was in my doorway. "You're going to watch me fill out paperwork and maybe get another cup of coffee. You're very intimidating, Mr. Ambrose," I said dryly, returning to the schedule.

He stepped into my office and closed the door behind him, the latch clicking as it slid shut. The second click I heard was the lock. I looked up at that point.

Very slowly, he strode around to the front of my desk and, placing both hands on the edge, leaned forward towards me. "And how do you feel about me right now?"

I crossed my arms on top of the desk and leaned right back towards him. "The same way I usually do. You are a cowardly thug with an over-inflated ego who belongs in a mental ward somewhere."

The right side of his lip curled up in a smirk. He reached forward with one hand and I forced myself not to move back. He very lightly yanked on a curly strand of hair beside my face, releasing it quickly so it sprang back.

"Are you done?" I asked, my heart beating in my throat.

He leaned forward, even closer to me. "Lizzy," he said gently, "I'm going to share something with you that I can't say in front of anyone else." I raised an eyebrow for him to continue. "I am going to hate-fuck the shit out of you when I get my hands on you," he laughed, his blue eyes twinkling merrily.

I forced myself to laugh. "So that's what this is all about? You want to fuck me? I swear, men are all the same. Even the fucking psychopaths."

He bent down further and put his face directly in front of mine. "I'm going to do so much more to you than you realize." Then, startling the hell out of me, he leaned forward a short distance and kissed me, his lips hard and angry against mine.

I pulled back and slapped him, almost as a reflex.

"Get out of my office, you sick fuck," I snarled, no longer caring about keeping up appearances.

He just smiled, my handprint turning his cheek red. I'd hit him harder than I'd thought. "I'll see you later," he said casually, walking out of my door without looking back. He took up his previous position, simply staring into my doorway with his arms crossed over his chest.


	5. Chapter 5

I was finally getting ready to leave after a successful night.

I'd announced Team Moore to a very appreciative crowd and a mildly-concerned looking Paul Heyman. His crew hadn't done much damage to the show.

All in all, it had indeed been a good night.

I packed up my laptop and threw on my coat, ready to get to my hotel and hopefully sleep.

I turned to walk out to the parking lot and saw Ambrose standing across from the office door as if he'd never left. His expression was unreadable, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Go home, Ambrose," I said tiredly, hoisting my bag over my shoulder.

"You shouldn't walk to your car alone at night. It could be dangerous."

I turned towards him slowly. "Was that a threat?"

He shook his head. "No. It was an offer to walk you to your car." He stepped towards me. "I'm highly invested in your safety for the next week and six days, Elizabeth. I don't want anything happening to you before I get a chance to pay you back for my broken arm."

"I didn't break your arm, Ambrose, and you know that."

"Let's just cut the PR response, Lizzy. We both know what's actually been happening, and that's the important thing. I don't give a fuck if anyone else ever knows." He pointed to his own chest. "_I_ know, and _you_ know. And you are going to pay for what happened to me."

I waited a few moments. "Are you done now?" I asked coldly. "I'd really like to go get some sleep."

"You know," he said slowly, reaching out and running a single finger over my collarbone, "if you wanted some company for that, too, I could clear my schedule." He grinned at me. ""I'll fuck your brains out and make you scream my name over and over again."

"Mmm…no thanks," I replied, pushing his hand off of me. "Not even the _slightest_ bit interested."

He gave a hard laugh. "That's too bad. Some days I think if I could just fuck you, I'd stop being so angry with you. Then again," he shrugged, "I'd still hate you, because you're the fucking bitch who had my arm broken and made me miss out on a month of paychecks. So I'm probably completely wrong and just thinking with my dick."

"Have you really kept me here to tell me that you fantasize about fucking me?"

"And to tell you that I think you're a fucking bitch. You have me very conflicted, Elizabeth."

"Well, I am so terribly sorry for that," I rolled my eyes, turning to walk away. He grabbed my shoulder and stopped me by pulling me back into him and wrapping his arms around me.

"This is problematic, isn't it?" He asked in my ear, brushing my hair back to expose my neck.

"The fact that you won't let me go to the hotel and go to bed? Yes, I find it to be incredibly problematic."

"I meant how right this feels, for me to be holding on to you." He stroked a finger down the side of my neck. "How right it felt to kiss you. Our little banter back and forth is fun, but it could be so much more if you'd only admit that you want me."

"What fucking planet are you on?" I asked, absolutely incredulous as I struggled away from him. "You are out of your goddamn mind. I don't even respect you, much less like you. Whatever this little love story is that you're imagining, try to flush it out of your twisted little mind. It's never going to happen."

Chillingly, he smiled at me. "Let me walk you to your car, Elizabeth," he said, stepping towards me again.

I backed up quickly, turning around and simply walking away as fast as my legs could carry me. Mercifully, he didn't follow me. I made it to my car and, with shaking hands, unlocked it, got in, and drove away.

I didn't sleep well at all for a few nights.


	6. Chapter 6

During the following week, I tried to put that very odd night out of my mind. Ambrose must have seen that his threats to tear me apart limb from limb didn't really bother me. I cursed myself for letting him see how much this new behavior had unsettled me, because it simply meant that it would continue – if not escalate.

"Two more weeks," I muttered to myself as I got ready for the show that evening. "Not even. Thirteen more days, and all of this will be over."

Tonight was going to be a difficult one. Team Heyman and Team Moore would be signing the match contract. I'd read it over at least twenty times over the course of the week and knew what I was signing. Still, my nerves were jangling uncomfortably.

I didn't want to sign this contract. I didn't want to have this match. I wanted Heyman and company gone, but the risks I was taking – the things I might lose as a result – outweighed the benefit of their demise.

Finally, the moment arrived. I took a deep breath and stepped out through the curtain, making my way to the ring with purpose. Paul Heyman was waiting for me there, microphone in hand.

I hadn't even sat before he started talking at me.

"Ms. Moore, are you sure about this?" He asked slowly. "You stand to lose…everything."

The crowd began to yell, and I glanced to my right. I closed my eyes, groaning internally. Ambrose, Seth Rollins, and Roman Reigns were making their way through everyone, slowly converging onto the ring.

I shook my head, then leaned over and grabbed Heyman's mic from his hand. "Come on down, boys," I said evenly. "You obviously have something you want to add to this conversation."

Giving me a dirty look, Heyman grabbed another mic.

"I understand what is at stake, Mr. Heyman," I replied to his original question. "I've read this contract. I know what I am doing."

"Are you sure about that?"

From the corner of my eye, I saw a black-clad man – I didn't know who of the three it was – climb into the ring.

"Yes," I said simply, turning slightly to see that it was Ambrose. Of course. He stood in the corner, arms crossed over his chest, simply watching the two of us.

"Do you really want to risk spending a month with Dean?" He continued, raising an eyebrow. "The man is, to say the least, unstable. This will probably not go well for you."

I gripped the mic a little bit tighter, trying to appear braver than I actually felt. "I'm not intending to ever find out."

"We never intend for bad things to happen to us, Ms. Moore. I'm asking you to reconsider, for your own safety."

"Shut up, Paul," Ambrose's voice broke in, almost conversationally. "Just sign the damn thing." Heyman shot Ambrose a look, but did pick up the pen and add his signature in the requisite spot. Then he shoved the folder over to me.

My hand shaking slightly, I went to grab the pen. Ambrose's hand clapped over mine, and I looked up at him.

"Think about what you're doing," he said slowly. "Do you realize what you're signing up for?" He paused. "Do you?"

"Take this stupid thing out of your hair," he muttered, grabbing my hair clip and yanking my hair free. I kept my eyes trained straight ahead on the contract.

"It's going to be you and me, Elizabeth. There will be nobody around to protect you. No Irishman savior coming to rescue you. You think these clowns give a damn about what happens to you after that final bell rings and you are no longer in charge?"

He squat down and put his face next to mine. "I'm going to hurt you, Lizzy," he said frankly, nodding emphatically. "I am going to tear you apart, the way you did to me." He tapped on the page. "It's there, right there, in writing. You will belong to me. You will do everything I say. Do you think I'll be a nice guy when I get my hands on you? You said it yourself – I am a sick individual. And you haven't seen anything yet."

I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. He started stroking my hair lightly. "I am not a nightmare you can wake up from," he said gently. "You think about what you're doing, because after I'm done with you, you will never be the same again."

I whipped my head around to face him. "Go to Hell," I snapped, grabbing the pen and signing with a flourish.

I dropped it quickly and turned to stare into his eyes. He was smiling widely. "You have no idea what you just signed up for," he said, laughing.

I lost my temper. I stood and slapped him again, wanting that smug smile off of his face.

It didn't work.

His head turned back towards me, that insufferable smile still smeared across his lips. He stepped towards me, wrapping his hands around my waist. He leaned forward and pressed his face into my hair before very lightly kissing my forehead.

Still unfathomably angry, I hauled off and punched him dead in the jaw. He let go of my waist and I backed away from him, getting ready to defend myself if he came at me.

His head popped up and he stared at me, his eyes bright. Then, to my amazement, he started laughing. "Oh, good," he chuckled, wagging his finger at me. "Very, very good. You have just the right amount of fight in you, baby. Hit me again."

"You are a sick motherfucker," I snapped, feeling myself start to shake.

"You bet I am," he growled, reaching out to grab me. I darted back. "Come here," he commanded.

"No."

"What, do you think I'm going to hurt you?" He asked, tossing his hair back out of his face. "I can't do that yet, Lizzy. You're still technically my boss for the next six days. But unless you want things to be very bad for you after those six days are up, I suggest you make your way back over here. Now."

"Dean," Heyman said, stepping between the two of us, "there's no need for this right now. Let it go." Ambrose took his eyes off of me for a split second to glance at Heyman before looking back at me.

"She's made her bed, Paul. She started this."

"So you end it. For now. We can come back to this after we win on Sunday."

I glanced to my left and right, trying not to move my head much. Reigns and Rollins had come into the ring behind me. I rotated and backed away, trying to keep all four men in my line of sight.

I noticed movement up on the ramp and saw Kane and Daniel Bryan very slowly coming down. I mentally breathed a sigh of relief.

Heyman noticed the new arrivals as well, and began to tug on Ambrose's arm to pull him out of the ring. "Come on, Dean. It's time to go. Contract is signed. Our night is done."

Ambrose stepped around Heyman and came towards me, his movements slow and controlled. "Go on," he said to Heyman, Rollins, and Reigns. "I'll catch up."

As the other three men exited the ring, Kane and Bryan halted their approach, obviously unsure if I still needed rescuing.

He put his hands up, as if to show he didn't mean me any harm. I didn't trust that notion.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he reassured me seconds before he closed the rest of the space between us.

He put his hands on my trembling shoulders and pressed his mouth to mine. I could taste the blood that had begun to pool in his mouth and tried to pull away, but his hand came and pressed my head against his.

Then, as suddenly as he was there, he left. I watched him follow Reigns and Rollins back through the crowd while a baffled Paul Heyman looked on. I was glad that I wasn't the only one completely mind-fucked by these events…but it scared me just a little to know that Heyman, the supposed mastermind of this whole group, had no idea what Ambrose was doing.


	7. Chapter 7

I spent most of the next week unable to eat. Or sleep. Or do much of anything, really. My anxiety had finally gotten the better of me now that the match was closing in on us.

I went to the arena early on Sunday and paced in my office, trying to work off some of the nervous energy before I drove everyone around me insane.

There were a few knocks at my door, more than likely someone wanting a word with me before this huge match. The only words they would have gotten were "Fuck off," anyway, so I didn't bother to answer.

Finally, it was time. I made my way out to stand by the ring while the rest of my team was announced.

Heyman and crew had already arrived, and Ambrose ambled his way over to where I was waiting and simply stared at me, smiling eerily.

I particularly hoped that he got his ass handed to him tonight.

He leaned over the ropes and began yelling my name. I crossed my arms over my chest and ignored him. Finally, as my last man was making his way down, I felt his hand paw at the top of my head.

"What?" I snapped, turning to look up at him.

He grinned at me. "I'll see you after the match, sweetheart." He blew me a kiss.

"You sure will," I replied, smiling myself. "I'm going to kick your ass across the ring for that when it's all said and done."

He raised an eyebrow, just grinning at me. "We'll see who will be doing the ass kicking."

Before I could come up with a clever response, he retreated to his corner. My heart pounding in my chest, I watched as my guys settled on who would go first. Then, the bell rang.

It was a hell of a fight.

Cena and Lesnar started it off. These two guys had a genuine hatred for one another, and neither of them held back. Within five minutes, Cena had a bloody nose and Lesnar's eye was starting to swell.

Cena managed to make a tag to Del Rio, who tried to make Lesnar tap with a cross arm-breaker. But there was a reason this guy was a monster – he simply threw Del Rio off of him, dumping him on the back of his head. He crawled over to his corner and managed to tag in Reigns.

Reigns was big and aggressive, but he was also young and stupid. He tried to go for a power bomb and Del Rio made him pay, pulling him down in the middle of the ring and locking in the cross arm-breaker, which had just failed moments before.

Reigns tapped, and I found myself relieved.

Wasting no time, Ambrose came in and began pummeling Del Rio. The two traded blows before Del Rio managed to escape and tag in Orton.

This was a match-up I was particularly interested in. Both men were ruthless, cold, and calculating. They didn't disappoint me. Every single time Orton hit Ambrose, part of me cheered. Ambrose, however, got his fair share of offense in. In truth, he looked much more aggressive than he had in previous matches. It stepped up my level of nervousness just a little bit.

The match seemed to go on forever, the eliminations happening relatively evenly – Del Rio, Rollins, Lesnar, Kane, and then Orton. The only four remaining were Cena, Bryan, Ambrose, and Punk. I watched intently as Ambrose and Bryan squared off, hoping desperately that the odds would swing back in our favor.

Ambrose delivered a particularly nasty DDT and covered Bryan, turning towards me and grinning as the ref made the three count. I tried not to let my face fall. I still had Cena against a tired Ambrose and a CM Punk coming off of an injury. It could still go my way.

Cena came in, but Ambrose was ready. They fought viciously, and I found myself appreciating Cena more and more as time went on.

Ambrose managed to escape long enough to tag in Punk, and that's where the viciousness took on a whole new level.

Much like Cena and Lesnar, Cena and Punk could be a very volatile combination. Punk was ruthless. Finally, he hit not one, but two GTS's. I closed my eyes for a moment, mentally pleading with John to get up.

"You'll want to watch this," Punk yelled at me, and I opened my eyes.

He tagged in Ambrose.

Ambrose, grinning at me, dropped down and covered Cena for the three count.

It was over. We had lost.


	8. Chapter 8

Thank you all so much for reading, favoriting, reviewing, messaging, and following this story! I'm pleased to say that the next story is published in its entirety (in record time!) and can be found under the title: Where She's Gone, There's No Coming Back.

For new readers (hi!), I am a terrible, horrible author and usually leave cliff-hanging type endings to stories in my series up until the last one. I do try to update rather quickly, so as to not keep you hanging for too long! Please enjoy! For established readers (hi!) giving this series a try because it's me writing it, I am humbled and hope you enjoy.


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